My love language.

He roars like a dinosaur for his cheerios at snack time and army crawls across the ABC rug like a crocodile for story time. He doesn’t speak English but we speak the same language anyways, through laughs and peekaboo and hugs and growls.

He calls us all “mama” because that’s the only English word he knows for someone who takes care of him.

He’s in a neverland of his own creation most of the time, and I wish I could see the stories he’s dreaming up inside his head. He’s enjoying his dry cereal with no hands, diving in face first, like a puppy.

When it’s playtime he clutches the blue Duplo Lego, the best one with four wheels, lest any of the others even think of having a turn with it.

His smile is a mile wide and his eyes are full of bright curiosity and boundless energy.

He weeps when his mama leaves him with us in the childcare room, but quickly remembers that we speak to him in dinosaur and lion roars and he’s ready to play in no time. To see him run to his mama, when she arrives to pick him back up, two hours later, lights up my world and also breaks my heart, when I think about those little ones separated from their mamas and dads. He runs into her arms and hugs her like she’s been gone for days.

He is a 3 year old refugee from Afghanistan, making a new home and a new life in Atlanta with his family. And he’s the same as all of our children. We all speak the same language when it comes to dino roars, Lego cars, heartbreak and love. We’re here to take care of each other. And the love I feel when he gives a deafening growl (maybe he’s a grizzly bear now) is the love language we share.